On The Getaway Mile
by BulletBlaze
Summary: They took notice of the boy in the black hoodie and red ski mask. They plaster his blurry picture all over newspapers and websites and late night talk shows, and they call him a hero, a vigilante, a danger. They call him Red.


**Title from 'Bulletproof Heart' by My Chemical Romance. Enjoy, and tell me what you think!  
_**

When Stiles leaves Beacon Hills, he doesn't expect anyone to follow him.

A lot of things have changed over the years. Scott has finally grown into his alpha status, thank god. Kira, Lydia, and Mason have also figured out the extent of their abilities, harnessed them, put them to good use.

Stiles has, too, but they don't know that. They don't even know he _has_ abilities.

Well, he does, and they're pretty badass.

It was the summer after senior year. Shit had gone down, people had gotten hurt, Stiles had gotten nightmares for weeks, was still having them, and he just…

He was tired. Of all of it.

So he packed up his bags, said goodbye to his dad and his friends, his pack, and left for San Fran. It was there, in the big city, surrounded by people he didn't know and problems he wasn't needed to solve, that Stiles finally came into himself as a person, not just a researcher, or strategist, or a fighter. Just, as Stiles.

He went to pride. He let himself discover what he liked, what he didn't like, and who he liked it with. Since, he has come to the conclusion that he is bisexual, and not all that kinky.

Which he's okay with, really. Maybe he was kinda hoping to be a bit more into some of the fun stuff, but he wasn't, and none of his partners made him feel bad for it.

He had found, however, that he kind of enjoyed wearing makeup and high heels.

That story was much more interesting.

Stiles actually wondered if drag queens could just _tell_ somehow. Could just tell by looking at him, because it had happened back home, and then again in San Fran. He had been exploring, found himself in a bar that didn't look twice at his fake ID, and only sat down for a few minutes before he found himself surrounded by a group of friendly drag queens, telling him that he had a perfect complexion for some of their newer makeup.

And so he had followed them into the back room, and they had given him a complete makeover. After, they insisted on him trying on some different clothes: some sparkly dresses, some crop tops with booty shorts, some blouses with mini skirts, before finally settling on a short, tight, and sleeveless golden dress with black fishnet stockings.

He had to admit, he kind of loved it.

Not only were the drag queens incredibly sweet and hilarious, full of funny stories and local gossip, but they also didn't push Stiles to identify why he liked dressing up like this.

He still goes back once a week.

They're also the only ones who _know._

They had figured it out with him, actually. The sun had long since left and the nightclubbers had long since come out. Ivy, one of Stiles' favorites of the queens, was chatting with him on the roof of the bar when they heard a shout from the alley next to the building.

The two had raced over to the edge, Ivy in her heels, Stiles still dressed in his street clothes. Looking down, they saw their friend Maple pressed up against the wall, a man in a mask holding a gun to her head.

Stiles had panicked. His breath caught in his throat, his eyes grew wide, his heart raced.

He needed to get down there. He _needed_ to help Maple.

She was going to die.

The next thing Stiles knew, he was standing behind the mugger instead of watching him from thirty feet in the air.

But he didn't let himself be confused for long, letting instinct take over as he twisted the man's arm back, yanking until the gun fell from his fingers. An elbow to the temple had the man lying on the ground, unconscious.

He looked at Maple, then up at Ivy, then down at the man.

All he heard was a frightened and confused, "Stiles? How did you…" before the world tilted and the concrete came up to meet him.

Surprisingly, the queens took it in stride; said they just knew there was something different about him.

Together, they made the discovery that Stiles could teleport. That's what had happened- he had focused so hard on the alley where Maple was, telling himself he needed to be there that instant, and… well. Somehow he made it so.

It wasn't long after the discovery that Stiles felt an urge to use his newfound ability to do something bigger than pop from his bed to his fridge and back again. There had to be something more important than this, some reason for him to have this power.

His mind, unwillingly, went back to Beacon Hills. To solving crimes, beating the bad guys, helping people. _Saving_ people.

He missed it.

And so, with some help from his queens, Stiles had started looking for trouble. They told him where there was likely to be someone in need of help, like a living team of police scanners, and that's where he went.

It felt like sophomore year all over again. He felt out of his depth.

But he got better at it, after the first few months. Sure, he still had to go to the backroom of the bar often enough, a room that was now fully stocked with medical equipment that Sherry had gotten from… somewhere. He was to always tell them when he was going out to find trouble, or try to text them when he accidentally stumbled on some, and he was required to report back to the backroom every time. There, they would make sure he was okay, physically and emotionally, and patch him up if he wasn't. If he didn't show up, they said they would go looking for him, so he always made sure to report back.

The fighting skills took a while to hone, as did the teleporting skills. It was a solid five months before he could teleport more than seven times in a row without passing out. But now, Stiles could do it as many times as he wanted without even getting a little bit dizzy, which left his energy for the actual fighting part. It turned out that Angel used to take self defense classes, so she taught Stiles all that she could. The rest, stiles learned by YouTube videos and trial-and-error.

Now, it had been almost two years. People had taken notice of Stiles- well, not _Stiles._ But they had taken notice of the mystery person who was popping up all over the city, taking care of thieves and rapists and drunken douchebags looking for a fight. They took notice of the boy in the black hoodie and red ski mask. They plastered his blurry picture all over newspapers and websites and late night talk shows, and they called him a hero, a vigilante, a danger.

They called him Red.

Stiles stays away from most of the conspiracies unless one of the queens points it out to him. He avoids the articles in the paper, turns the channel when the reporter starts in on how **_"Another mugger was left tied up in an alley last night, and investigators are calling it yet another act of the mysterious masked man known as 'Red'-"_**

He doesn't care about what they're saying; all he cares about is helping innocent people.

One night, however, changes it all.

Stiles is hopping from alley to alley, keeping an ear out for any sign of distress, but it's a quiet night. Calm.

That is, until a gunshot cracks through the sky like thunder.

Stiles is off in a second- on the roof, then on another, and another and another until he can see them, a man lying on the ground, clutching his side, and another man looming over him.

It only takes a second for Stiles to appear behind the armed man, kick the gun from his outstretched hand, and wrap an arm tightly around his neck until the weight in his arms turns limp. He lets the man fall to the ground, not wasting a moment as he rushes over to tuck the gun into his waistband and then fall to his knees beside the bleeding figure.

One gloved hand presses against the wound while the other reaches for the man's pocket, searching for a phone to call the police. But before he can find one, a different hand reaches out and latches onto his wrist, stilling him.

Stiles is about to slap it away- this guy was just fucking shot for god's sake- when a voice pierces through his frantic haze.

 _"Stiles."_

Wait. How do they know-?

And that voice, it's familiar-

Stiles snaps his eyes up to the man's face. It's dark, the outline is a little different- longer hair, a fuller beard- but there's no doubt. No second-guessing.

"Derek."

Derek fucking Hale. The love of his life for a good three years. Who disappeared during senior year, off somewhere with Cora. Who Stiles hasn't seen in years.

Was just shot and is lying on the ground of a damp alley, right in front of Stiles.

Oh right, shot.

"Shit, we should probably get that out."

Stiles reaches for him again, but Derek's hand stays firm on his wrist.

He held out the other hand, revealing a bloody bullet nestled in the palm. "It didn't go deep. It's already healing."

"Oh." Stiles gulped.

He doesn't know what to _do._

Well, someone was bound to have heard the gunshot, and the police are probably already on their way, so…

"We should get out of here. C'mon, I know where."

Stiles helps pull Derek to his feet, then checks to make sure no blood of Derek's got anywhere. Once all of the precautions are taken care of, Stiles leads Derek back to the bar, entering through the back and gesturing for Derek to go into the backroom.

When they enter, Stiles immediately spots Ivy. She's sitting in the corner on her phone, probably waiting for Stiles to show up to make sure he's unharmed.

He clears his throat. Ivy's head shoots up, and she gasps.

"Stiles! Is that blood? Who's that? Oh lord, he's hurt! Why didn't you call the police? You can't be so careless-"

"Ivy! It's fine, he's okay. I… I know him, okay? I promise, everything's fine. Could you just give us a minute?" Stiles almost begs.

Blessedly, Ivy only gives him a disapproving look, along with one that says _We're talking about this later and you're explaining everything_ before leaving, closing the door behind her.

Then it's quiet. Stiles wrings his hands for a moment before remembering that they're both covered in blood, and that he should probably do something about it.

"Um, here, one sec. Amber should have something back here that you can fit into…" Stiles disposes of his gloves and rifles through one of the many wardrobes, finally pulling out a clean shirt, plain and black, that looks like it would fit Derek. Then, he digs out one of his own shirts, a dark pink one embroidered with the bar's name that the girls gave him for his birthday last year. It isn't until he's also gathered two pairs of grey sweatpants, handing over half of the clothes to Derek, who has just finished washing his hands in the sink in the corner, that he realizes he's still wearing his red mask.

But before he can even begin to reach for it, Derek's already lifting his hands. The fabric slowly slips over his face and hair. Even though he could see Derek with the mask on, it felt different with it off. He noticed that Derek looked softer, older. Not much, but enough to see that whatever he's been doing with his life the last few years, it's been good for him. He looks settled. Content.

And he's looking at Stiles like he missed him.

And god, Stiles missed Derek so fucking much.

Without noticing, Stiles' hands had slightly lifted towards Derek. He aborts the movement, snapping his arms back to his sides, hoping Derek didn't see-

But he did. And there's a soft, almost _happy_ smile on his face, like he's been waiting for this-

Derek lifts his arms up and out, invites Stiles to step into them.

Stiles fucking runs.

At least, he tries to. But they're only standing a few feet away, so the extra momentum just pushes Derek back. He stays upright, though, and encircles Stiles in his arms. They melt together, clutching at skin and clothing, and they're still smeared with Derek's blood, and Stiles feels so overwhelmed, so full of emotions-

And he doesn't even realize he has started crying until Derek's shushing him, stroking his hair, swaying them back and forth.

Why is he crying? Stiles can't find the answer, but he doesn't really care all that much. Not when Derek is standing here, _in his arms._

He figures it doesn't really matter, anyway. Stiles has always been a crier. He's not ashamed.

There's no room for shame. He's too full of relief and awe and love.

There are all sorts of long hidden feelings rising inside him, but Stiles lets them in with open arms. He doesn't think he could stop them if he tried.

After they're changed and rid of any blood, and Derek's side is completely healed, Stiles lets Ivy back in. Together, they tell Derek about his double life and how it came to be. After some prompting and inquiries about his injury, Derek tells Ivy about werewolves.

To their surprise, she takes in stride.

Well, to be fair, she did witness Stiles teleporting firsthand many times. He supposes there's not much else that can phase her.

(He takes that back when he eventually tells her the story of his highschool years in Beacon Hills. She only passes out, once, though, so Stiles calls it a win.)

He's not at all surprised when the queens immediately bring Derek into the fold. Once they determine that he's in San Fran for the indefinite future, they manage to wrangle _him_ into the makeup chair.

Sadly, he's not really into it. At all. But he still puts up with a little for Stiles' sake. And just because he doesn't like wearing lipstick and short dresses doesn't mean he doesn't like it when _Stiles_ does. The first time Derek sees Stiles in drag, everything is kind of a mess. Stiles is nervous, Derek is flustered, and the queens are all watching from the doorway.

But it's also the first time Derek kisses Stiles, and he doesn't seem to mind the lipstick all that much when it's coming from Stiles' mouth.

Another thing changes with Derek back in Stiles' life, and it becomes evident the first time the reporter says **_"The masked crime fighter known as Red has struck again, this time with some help."_** The story is accompanied by a blurry picture of Stiles and Derek, both wearing masks, gloved hands joined between them as they stand over a thief in an alley.

Stiles has the photo framed and gives it to Derek as a birthday present a few months later, mostly as a joke. But Derek just smiles fondly at him, places the photo on the bedside table of their shared apartment, and then tackles him to the bed with a kiss.

On the TV by the wall, footage of the two masked men plays on repeat. **_"It is still unknown who these heroes are, or what exactly they are to one another, but we can only hope that they're here to stay."_**


End file.
